The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  Simmons would cause trouble, though, so he must discuss the problem with Faith. But not yet. He’d requested an appointment with the trustees, citing urgent business that required the attention of all three men. They should be waiting for him at Cray’s.

  He’d not told Faith. His immediate goal was to deflect Chester. She was right that he could cause considerable trouble. Once John charged him with fraud, society would postpone judging Faith until they sorted out Chester’s motives.

  John had never visited Cray’s, but the building was a typical bank – sturdy, with no windows. This one was dimmer inside than most. If his business were less urgent, he might mention the domes and skylights Soane was incorporating into the Bank of England that let light into its core. But this wasn’t the time to discuss architecture.

  Men bustled about, speaking in the hushed tones one used in banks and cathedrals. The doorman asked his business, then referred him to a receptionist, who consulted a sheaf of papers. At least he was expected. A page escorted him to MacPherson’s office.

  “What could possibly be urgent about your business, Lascar?” demanded MacPherson the moment John entered. Eyes like black ice declared that he wasn’t welcome.

  John leaned his portfolio against his chair and abandoned the exchange of civilities that generally opened these meetings.

  “As per my contract, I spent the past week surveying Westcourt,” he said bluntly. “It is in deplorable condition.”

  “We know the roof leaks,” said Donaldson, interrupting. “That’s why we sent you there.”

  “The problem extends far beyond leaks,” snapped John. “My usual practice when I encounter serious trouble is to check the history of repairs to better ascertain the cause.”

  “We are aware that the previous steward allowed the estate to deteriorate,” said Meeks soothingly. “The original trustees were in ill health. They ceased active oversight some time ago. We have taken many steps to rectify the situation, of which hiring you is merely the latest.”

  “And I appreciate the chance to work on a fine building. But I must question why none of you examined it for yourselves.”

  “We are busy men.” MacPherson’s tone could have frozen fire. “It is customary to send representatives into the country.”

  “If we are speaking of custom, it is customary to choose representatives who have no personal interest in the property.”

  MacPherson glared daggers.

  Donaldson looked ready to attack.

  “Suppose you come to the point, Mr. Lascar.” Meeks’s oily solicitor’s voice tried to calm tempers.

  “Very well.” From his portfolio, John produced the Westcourt ledgers for the two years Chester had been steward. He flipped from marked page to marked page as he spoke. “As you can see, these entries show repairs to the village church, substantial work to the village inn and Westcourt outbuildings, a new dairy, and more,” he said, pointing to the sums in each case.

  “We know that little maintenance was done during the previous steward’s tenure. That’s why Lord Chester had to address so many problems at once.” Donaldson’s stuffy retort raised John’s hackles.

  “I agree.” John fought for calm. “You mentioned that the previous trustees were lax, but do you have any idea how lax? They last checked Westcourt nineteen years ago. As near as I can tell, little maintenance was done after the duchess died, and none at all after the estate carpenter expired.”

  “When did that happen?” demanded MacPherson.

  “Four years ago.”

  “But—”

  John raised a hand. “That is why I am here. Not one of these repairs was actually made.”

  “What?” Meeks croaked.

  “Not one,” repeated John. “Lord Chester has repaired nothing! The vicar spoke with me after services Sunday, begging me to intercede, for the church roof is in danger of collapse. Lord Chester claimed only last month that you had again turned down his request for repairs.”

  “But—”

  “I saw the roof,” continued John, allowing no interruption. “A patch was applied above the altar last spring. You can check with the builder who did it, but I would be surprised if it cost five pounds. Westcourt’s church is small. This two hundred pounds”—he pointed to the ledger—“is at least double what replacing the entire roof should cost.”

  MacPherson swallowed. Hard.

  “The innkeeper has only two usable stalls since the rear wall collapsed on the stable. The Westcourt dairy has occupied the same building for two hundred years. It is a sturdy stone structure whose only problem is a pair of rotted beams that will be easy to replace. The house, on the other hand, has numerous problems we can discuss later.”

  “For a price, I suppose,” growled Meeks.

  “I have no contract for designing repairs,” John reminded them. “Nor do I expect you to take my word without investigating. I strongly urge you to do just that. And not just the house. My cursory examination turned up embezzlement on a grand scale. The staff you are funding doesn’t exist. Lord Chester refused to pension off servants who should have retired years ago. None of them has received an increase in wages for thirty years. Nor has the household budget increased in that time despite that half a dozen family members plus their personal servants joined the household during that period. When the war pushed prices higher, the residents had to adjust by keeping staff positions vacant as servants died or left. The cook dropped dead in the kitchen two days ago. She was seventy-seven, with serious health problems. Miss Hortense and Miss Esther have not received their quarterly allowance since last summer, despite that the dispersals are listed in the ledger. Lord Chester is not yet the duke,” he added, seeing the comment trembling on MacPherson’s lips. “And despite his claims, he may never hold that title. I spoke with Lord Portland, which is how I got your names – Lord Chester refuses to tell anyone who the current trustees are. Portland has discovered that every claim Lord Chester made about the duke’s flight from Westcourt is a lie. The man’s fate may never be proved, and in the meantime, you are responsible for Westcourt and its finances. Thus any problems must be laid at your door.”

  “You exaggerate,” snapped MacPherson.

  “No, I don’t. Lord Chester keeps the estate books – these books. No one else is allowed to touch them. I would not have seen them myself if he had been at home – Miss Harper gave me permission to borrow them. She had no reason to think anything was wrong. I suggest you match the entries in this ledger to the housekeeper’s account book, the kitchen account, and the butler’s salary records. That alone should prove that these entries are very suspicious.”

  Meeks sighed. “He is right. I warned you not to leave everything in the heir’s hands. If he did divert money to his own use, you could be held liable, especially if this latest search proves inconclusive.”

  MacPherson paged through the current ledger, shuddering at several entries. But Donaldson wasn’t convinced. “Is this how you deflect interest from your own misdeeds, Lascar?”

  “What misdeeds?” Only will kept his face placid.

  “Lord Chester informed us that he’d turned you off for trifling with his ward.”

  John shook his head, radiating disgust. “I presume you mean the duke’s ward. Lord Chester twists facts, as usual. Miss Harper accepted my suit two days ago – you might recall that she is of age and thus need not consult you before considering marriage.”

  “He said nothing of a betrothal.” Meeks frowned.

  “He gave us no chance to mention it.” John sighed. “I had already discovered his defalcations and was ready to leave – to consult you,” he added. “Lord Chester returned from London with Lord Bitstaff, to whom he owes a large gaming debt. Since he is unable to cover it, he’d bargained Miss Harper’s virginity for it. I barely rescued her from Bitstaff’s attack. We left immediately, of course.”

  “Of course.” MacPherson paled.

  “Grave charges,” said Meeks.

  “But true. The s
taff will bear witness. I am not surprised that he is reviling me, though. The family warned me that Lord Chester seeks revenge whenever anyone thwarts him, so smearing my reputation fits his character.”

  “Something else to check.” MacPherson grimaced. “I’ll drive out tomorrow.”

  “We will all go,” said Donaldson, reaching for the second ledger.

  John handed him a sheaf of papers. “My preliminary report on Westcourt’s condition, gentlemen. You can compare it to your own observations.” He rose. “Polly and Ned are the staff members most capable of answering questions. The housekeeper no longer recognizes anyone, and the butler has trouble remembering what day it is. Both should have been pensioned off years ago.” When they nodded, he excused himself and left. He would like to wring MacPherson’s neck, and Donaldson wasn’t much better. But their shock seemed genuine. He could not accuse them of conspiring with Chester. Now that they understood the problem, they would address it. Their own reputations depended on it. Faith’s friends would finally receive the treatment they deserved.

  But he had to wonder how many others would receive letters from Chester today…

  * * * *

  Faith wandered the house, bored nearly to tears. The sun had set. Treburn had lighted lamps but said nothing about dinner. How late did John work?

  Her stomach growled as the clock struck six. Westcourt was eating by now.

  Her possessions had survived the dash to London intact, but several items had been left behind. A reasonable trade perhaps for the trinkets Ned had slipped her, though she still felt guilty about those. If she hadn’t been in shock…

  She’d discovered only this morning that the cloak’s pockets were filled with miniatures, snuff boxes, and watch fobs. Lady Catherine would not know they were gone – or Chester, for that matter. Baines had locked them in the vault after the duchess’s death. That the staff would risk transportation to help her brought a lump to her throat. They had always cared more for her welfare than their own and clearly meant to provide support until she found a post.

  Yet how could she accept these treasures? No matter how much she disliked Chester, she couldn’t condone stealing from Westcourt. But returning them would endanger her friends and give Chester a new grievance.

  The dilemma ate at her mind, making her too restless to sit. To escape thought for a time, she studied John’s house.

  His possessions were surprisingly eclectic, many adding warmth to his rooms. Like the vase in the drawing room. Made of nearly transparent glass, its stunning colors reminded her of the bright hues popular in India. But it was not Indian. Nor was it English or French. A similar bowl graced his study.

  At Westcourt, John had often speculated on how he would decorate each room if given free rein, impressing her with his imagination. Now that she saw his house, she was even more impressed. His taste was impeccable, from the gold and blue lushness of the drawing room, to the delicate comfort of her bedroom, to the cozy warmth of his study. Splashes of color drew the eye to his collection of sculpture or the curve of a table or a heavily carved chair. Yet everything fit into a harmonious whole. Even that brilliantly colored glass.

  Still puzzling over its origins, she wandered to the drawing room window, careful to stay far enough back that no one would see her. Despite the waning light, Hanover Square remained busy, filled with rattling carriages and bustling people. Lamps spaced at intervals around the edges illuminated a dozen nurses giving their charges a last turn about the central park. Three dandies on horseback nearly trampled a dog that had escaped its lead. A high-perch phaeton rounded the corner so fast it tipped up onto two wheels. Only a rapid lean by the driver kept it upright.

  Apparently all of London worked late. The city was different from Buckinghamshire in other ways, too. Thousands of chimneys kept it shrouded in smoke. Its noise made her ears ring – hooves clattering over cobblestone, venders shouting their wares, people, horses, and a host of conveyances. It was terrifying, yet exhilarating, and incredibly vibrant.

  All day she’d wanted to rush outside and explore. But she couldn’t. Leaving the safety of John’s house could only hurt his reputation.

  Turning her back on the window, she pondered how to fill the time until John returned. She’d run Westcourt for so long that she’d forgotten how ladies amused themselves – if she’d ever known. Already the day stretched longer than any in memory and it wasn’t even time for dinner. How did others stand it?

  The only ladies she knew were those at Westcourt. Lady Catherine maintained a strict schedule, devoting an hour each morning to correspondence and another to walking in the garden or the long gallery. She worked on her tapestry, sewed, paid or received calls, played the harpsichord, and so on.

  But Faith had never indulged in those activities. She had no friends outside the staff, few acquaintances, and no training in genteel accomplishments.

  But neither did Hortense, though the woman filled her time without complaint. She made minor repairs to the house, worked in the garden, and discussed problems with the tenants. She’d shouldered half the work of the old steward and did even more now that Chester was in charge. He preferred London.

  Esther dedicated her time to the church. If she wasn’t arranging flowers or collecting donations, she was embroidering altar cloths or seeking support for the village school.

  Reginald wrote. Or thought about writing. Or talked about writing. He had no other pastime that she could see.

  And the colonel? Faith frowned. He was the only one who had been there when she’d arrived. She had no idea what he did other than maintain a prodigious correspondence. Aside from joining the family at dinner and staying afterward for cards, he remained alone.

  Odd, that.

  But it was too late to learn how he spent his time. She would be better served filling her own. Tomorrow she must plan her future. But tonight she was hungry.

  Her irritation increased when she realized she was pacing. This inability to sit quietly boded ill, for companions passed many hours in near idleness. She’d never actually considered a companion’s duties, but now—

  Before alarm could set in, she heard John on the stairs.

  “Do you always work this late?” she demanded when he reached the door. The moment the words were out, she blushed. Where had she misplaced her manners?

  “Not usually, though this is hardly late by London standards. The upper classes rarely eat before eight.” John joined Faith in the drawing room. He knew he should change into evening clothes, but he was later than he’d intended. He’d returned from Cray’s to find that one of his students had botched an assignment, so he’d had to review the formulas for calculating stress. When he’d finally turned to his own work, he’d lost track of time.

  “Is anything wrong?” She took a seat, allowing him to join her.

  “Nothing serious, but more work piled up than I’d expected. I won the commission to design a gentleman’s club, so I made a start on that.”

  “At least Chester can’t spoil that one for you.”

  “He won’t spoil anything. He’ll be too busy saving his own skin.” He recounted his visit to the trustees, detailing everything he knew about Chester’s defalcations.

  “Pensions?” she gasped when he finished.

  “He’s been collecting the payments for two years. The trustees thought Westcourt had a full staff in addition to pensions for a dozen old servants. And they increased the budget to cover rising prices when they took over after Goodman’s death.”

  Faith angrily paced to the door and back. Her clenched fists told him she wanted to pound something – probably Chester’s face.

  “The trustees will leave for Westcourt in the morning,” he added. “No matter what Chester did after we left yesterday, they will make it right.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she turned to face him. “Thank you, John. I can’t believe—”

  “I promised they would be safe, Faith. I take my vows seriously.” He paused until she’d rega
in control of her face. “A visitor arrived just after we returned from seeing Alex.”

  “Chester?” Panic fluttered in her voice.

  “No. Mr. Simmons.”

  “Reginald!”

  Her obvious shock let him relax. “He accused me of abducting his betrothed.”

  “He what?”

  “You heard me. He swears that you are betrothed and that he will see me arrested for abduction.”

  “He lies.” She frowned. “What did you tell him?”

  “That Chester had turned you off and vowed to turn the others off as well – that was news, so we can conclude that Chester did nothing before Simmons left this morning. I said you were in town to see the trustees, but that you wanted your direction kept secret to protect you from Chester.”

  She muttered something under her breath.

  “If you wish to speak with him – which might be a good idea, as you can debunk some of his more fanciful notions – I will ask him to call at my office tomorrow. We’d best make it early to avoid too many spectators. His voice carries.”

  “I suppose that would be best. Drat the man! When will he learn that air dreams are not real?”

  “Not until reality beats him over the head much harder than it has done to date. Why does he consider you betrothed?”

  “Who knows?” She resumed her seat next to him. “He doesn’t want a wife. What he does want is someone who will listen to his poetry and encourage his efforts. His mother considered him brilliant and hung on his every word, so he fell into a serious decline after her death.”

  “When was that?”

  “Three years ago. His other relatives refused to put up with him, so the trustees took pity and sent him to Westcourt. He was tolerable until recently – in the last month alone, his verse has pushed me to the brink of madness more than once.”

  “Have you mentioned that to him?”

  “Often, but he is oblivious to anything he doesn’t wish to hear. I usually avoided him except at dinner, but lately he’s taken to tracking me down during the day. Escorting you around Westcourt made me unavailable, which is when he decided marriage was the answer. I turned him down, of course. I’ve no idea what he’s up to now. But I suppose I have to see him. He’ll make trouble otherwise.”